


Christmas Frottage

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: It's Christmas, and Sam and Dean get in the festive spirit by sitting down to watch some syrupy movie starring Jared Pada...Pada...Padasomething.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Chrimbus schmoop/crack. At least, it was supposed to be...I think the sad undertones crept in :( Slight spoilers for 6x15 The French Mistake.

“You're kidding right?”

Dean turned the DVD case over in his hands and frowned.  
“C'mon, Dean. Aren't you even curious?”  
“Um..no! The guy had a tanning bed in his entrance hall. I think it's safe to say he was a grade A douchebag. This story sounds so lame. Some dude paints a mural. 'Love is the brightest light of all'? I think I threw up a little in my mouth. And that scarf? Real men do not own knitwear, Sammy.”  
Sam snorted and swiped the DVD out of his brother's grasp.  
“It's Christmas, Dean. Just give it ten minutes and if it's that bad we'll put on a Chuck Norris movie or something.”  
Dean sighed deeply.  
“Fine. Ten minutes. Then we turn it off. Where'd you even get it?”  
Sam smiled as he went to insert the disc into the player.  
“I lifted it from his trailer.”  
“Dude, you have some weird, fucked up Narcissistic tendencies. We're gonna have to talk about that sometime.”  
Sam flopped down onto the couch next to his brother and laughed.  
“Oh really? You're just pissed you didn't think to grab any of Jensen's movies. The guy had the dodgy slasher flick market sewn up. You'd have loved that stuff. Talk about art imitating...parallel life.”  
Dean gave Sam a look which suggested he'd quite like to murder him at that moment in time.  
“Don't start it yet. If you're going to put me through this chick-flicky schmaltz-fest, I need a drink. Did you make the eggnog?”  
“Of course,” Sam said, getting up and walking to the kitchenette. “Here, try and tell me if it needs more kick.”  
He handed Dean a glass of thick yellow liquid.  
Dean took it and sipped, coughing slightly as the whiskey and rum heat hit the back of his throat. It was frothy and viscous, like very alcoholic spit.  
“Well?” Sam asked expectantly.  
“No, no, we're good.”  
Sam smiled and settled back down, taking a sip of his own drink.  
Dean took a larger slug and it went down easier that time. He wasn't going to admit it out loud, but spending Christmas with Sam, just the two of them in a snowed-in motel in Nebraska, was kind of nice. As good as anything could be these days. Dean knew the only reason he was still breathing was sitting next to him, fiddling with the remote. The world was still going to Hell in a handcart. Tomorrow they'd be back out there, working the job which had brought them up here in the first place, and the reality of everything they'd lost in recent months was weighing on Dean more than ever. His spine was a little more stooped, his walk a little more bowed from the soul-deep fatigue and that broken leg he'd never given a proper chance to heal. But just for tonight, he and Sam could drink sugary, soporific gloop, eat popcorn and watch some God-awful Jared Padasomething film. They could be warm and dry and grateful for the fact that Lucifer wasn't trepanning Sam's skull with a candy cane.  
  
It was weird at first, watching someone so like Sammy and yet so not him. It creeped Dean out. Made him think of shapeshifters and leviathan and of the Devil himself, wearing his brother's skin. But this character was gentle and had Sam's features from a few years back, before Hell had carved new lines into his open, expressive face. And Sam seemed fascinated by the whole thing.  
“Is that how I look when I cry?”  
Dean laughed. He'd rather scoop his eyes out with a rusty spoon that admit watching the Padaleski dude sob was making his heart clench uncomfortably.  
“Yup. All snotty and blubbery. Apparently only I was blessed with the 'ability to cry attractively' gene.”  
Sam elbowed him in the ribs. The motel couch was threadbare and hardly big enough for two regular sized men, let alone a sasquatch like Sam and they were too much in each other's space. As Dean finished another cup of eggnog, he felt himself relax into the cushions, his knee resting against his brother's.  
  
“Dean? Are you...are you crying?”  
Dean wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his throat. He took another swig of his drink.  
“No! Jesus, Sammy. Of course not. And if I was, it would only be because I was thinking about the hour and three quarters of my life I'm never gonna get back. Seriously, what a crock.”  
Sam smiled. His cheeks were flushed and his dimples studded his cheeks. He looked younger suddenly, more like the actor wearing his face in the stupid movie.  
“Are you drunk?”  
Sam chuckled.  
“Maybe I was a little heavy handed with the Christmas cheer.”  
“You think?”  
Dean rolled his eyes and took another glug anyway. He had to admit he was feeling kind of buzzed himself. Sam was radiating heat and it was impossible not to lean into it. The couch seemed have become the comfiest place on Earth, and the gentle in-out of his brother's slightly heavy breaths as the credits rolled was starting to lull him to sleep.  
“Dean?” Sam asked softly, one giant hand coming up to stroke through his hair.  
“Hey!” Dean slurred, trying to bat it away. “Keep 'em to yourself, Gigantor. Don't start with all that cuddly crap, you girl-drink drunk.”  
Sam huffed and Dean didn't even have to open his eyes to know he was on the receiving end of a bitchface.  
“I was gonna say don't fall asleep here. You'll crick your neck. Get on the bed if you're planning to call it a night. And for the record, you're the one who's passing out right now. I'm holding my own just fine.”  
Dean huffed and swung his legs up onto Sam's lap.  
“Oh no! No way. This couch ain't big enough for the both of us. My leg's going dead already. Now get up and lie on your own bed, Dean.”  
Dean smirked and started up with an exaggerated snore.  
“Fine!” Sam said and wriggled out from under Dean. Dean made himself limp, a dead weight, but the next thing he knew, the world had turned upside down and the bony nub of Sam's shoulder was digging into his solar plexus.  
“Sam! Hey! Put me down you freak!”  
Sam was laughing and staggering towards the twin beds, carrying him in a fireman's lift. Dean slapped at his brother and tried to squirm free, but his balance was off and the room was spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut and almost certainly did not squeak when Sam threw him down on the bed. But Sam was a little drunker than he'd anticipated too, and as he let go of Dean, he over-balanced and landed in a sprawl on top of his brother.  
“Oof! Get off me!” Dean gasped, winded.  
“Sorry, man!” Sam said, but he didn't look sorry. He was beaming all over his stupid, ruddy face as he rolled off Dean and onto his back next to him.  
“What're you, twelve?”  
“Says the guy who was fake sleeping?”  
Dean smirked and they lay side by side, catching their breath.  
  
After a while, Dean, tongue loosened by the booze, said quietly,  
“Do you wish you'd stayed?”  
Sam shifted next to him.  
“What? Stayed where?”  
Dean took a deep breath. He shouldn't have started this.  
“In his life. Jared Pada...Pada...”  
“Padalecki! His name was Padalecki, Dean. Jeez — it's not that difficult. And no. Why would you think that?”  
“You know why. Everything that's happened. You could have been spared all that if you'd stayed. You had an overpaid job. A nice big house. Tanning bed in the foyer. An alpaca.” He swallowed past a phantom lump in his gullet, thinking of the woman with Ruby's face. “A wife. There was nothing trying to rip your guts out there.”  
“Dean!” Sam sounded exasperated. “How many times? We didn't mean the same thing there. Our lives may be crappy, but at least we matter here. We help people. Those actors were self-important asshats. Look, I was curious to see the movie, but that's all it was. It was awful. I mean, the guy only has, like, three facial expressions: Confused, constipated and confused and constipated.”  
Dean sniggered at that.  
“And like I said. We weren't even brothers there, man. You know I...that's the one thing...”  
Sam trailed off and Dean waited for him to finish the thought. But it never came. Instead, Sam's breathing got a little ragged, like it used to when he was a kid and he was trying not to cry. Dean turned his face towards his little brother and found soft strands of over-long hair, the warm crook of Sammy's neck.  
“Me too, Sammy,” he whispered, not really knowing why. It just sounded right.  
  
It was a shock when he felt the warm, soft press of lips against his own. His brain was sluggish and for a nanosecond he wondered if there was someone else in the room he'd forgotten about, because someone was kissing him, and the only other person in the room was -  
“Sammy!” he mumbled against his brother's lips.  
“Shh, Dean. Please. Just...please.” Sam mashed their foreheads together.  
Dean blinked and saw Sam's kaleidoscope irises, so close they'd merged into one cyclops eye.  
“'S wrong, Sammy. You're my...we're -”  
Sam cut him off with another long, soft press of his mouth.  
“No one left to judge us, Dean.”  
That hit him, low and brutal, and then he realised with a sick sense of relief that Sam was right. In the same instant, Sam's tongue tentatively touched his bottom lip, and he opened for it like he'd always wanted it. Maybe he had.  
  
Dean couldn't deny that his little brother's snuffles, moans and the slick feel of his tongue licking along his own were conspiring to make his cock hard in his pants. He knew he should be mortified by that, but somehow he just couldn't bring himself to be. It didn't feel wrong. It felt new and dangerous and familiar and safe all at once. They kissed sloppily, rolling gingerly around the narrow bed, like two teenagers, inexperienced, tipsy fumbling turning hot and heavy in next to no time. Dean got his hands under Sam's shirt and the tee he wore underneath it, fingers finding warm, pliable skin. He'd given in to curiosity a few times — usually on nights like this with the fire of liquor in his belly and the realisation that he'd very little left to lose coursing wild through his blood — and he knew how different it could be with a man. The almost violence of it. But it had never been like this. The latent power in the muscles covered by that glorious skin. The desire to be owned. Sammy was huge. Dean had spent his whole life as wrapped up in this person as it was physically possible to be while remaining two separate entities. Even through those long years of separation when Sam was at college, Dean would find himself picturing his brother's face out of the blue, or speaking his name out loud when he was alone, and within a minute or so the phone would ring. It was like Dean held one end of this invisible thread, and Sam the other. Dean felt it being tugged now and then — a real, tangible thing. He'd been pinned under Sam myriad times in his life, wrestling, sparring, but it had never dawned on him how totally his younger sibling could dominate him and take him apart. He'd been doing it all their lives really. When he was a kid he'd done it with sad eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. Now he could hold him down, restrain him. Break him wide open.  
  
“Sammy!” Dean gasped, and Sam pulled away long enough to manhandle Dean into a sitting position and wrench his tee over his head before removing his own. Dean fumbled with his belt buckle, hands shaking slightly, before looking up to meet Sam's glazed eyes and giving him a tight nod. Sam understood his meaning and pushed his own jeans down, allowing his big, hard dick to spring free. Dean licked his lips, stomach fluttering nervously at being allowed to look at his brother like this, without shame, not having to avert his gaze from the sharp cut of his hips and firm dip and swell of his abdominal muscles. His cock looked wet at the tip, and thought that he'd done that, made his brother leak in his underwear with his plush mouth and big hands, made his own hard-on throb.  
“Dean!” Sam said, breathless, hands twitching uncertainly by his sides.  
“C'mere,” Dean whispered, pulling him down on top of him, flesh on flesh, feeling Sam's hardness nudge up against his own, leaving a moist trail smeared up the inside of his thigh.  
  
Sam's weight settled on him, and they wriggled and shifted until they found a position which suited them both. Dean sucked in a harsh breath as Sam started to pump his hips, grinding against him artlessly, but dragging the delicate skin covering his shaft back and forth with the spongy head of his cock. It shouldn't have been enough. It was erratic and dry and Sam's bones were bruising the places where Dean was soft, but it was Sam. Sam's voice panting and whimpering, and whispering his name over and over with something like awe in it. Sam's smell — clean sweat, shampoo and the peppery scent of his skin. Sam's mouth hot and damp, sucking at his neck. Sam's stupid hair in his eyes, his firm, round ass flexing under his palms. His whole world wrapped in bone and blood and skin and shuddering with need. Sam's enormous hands encircled his wrists, pushed them up above his head, pinioned him in place, and he felt the sharp sting of teeth close down on his collarbone. Sam let out a muffled cry and Dean felt the place where their cocks were rubbing together go slippery and warm. Sam kept moving, creating a squelchy, sucking sensation around Dean's engorged dick, and that was it. Dean threw his head back, almost butting Sam's chin where his head was hanging forward, sweaty strands of hair curtaining his face. Dean's back arched, and he pistoned up in between Sam's thighs as he pulsed out his release.  
  
Their movements slowed, sticky and sated now, and Sam gradually came to rest next to his brother, one long leg still nestled between Dean's, softening cock leaving a drying mess on his hip. Dean turned his head and kissed his brother's tacky forehead.  
“What was that?” Dean asked eventually, voice gone hoarse.  
He felt Sam shrug lightly.  
“Just felt like...we were headed that way.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow. He tried to remember the last time Sam had shown even a passing interest in a woman since he got his soul back. He had nothing. Then he realised he hadn't exactly been a trail blazer in that department himself. In fact, if he was honest with himself, there'd been no one since Lisa.  
“How long you known?”  
Sam was quiet for a few heartbeats.  
“Maybe always.”  
Dean thought about that for a while.  
“Huh.”  
“Huh?” Sam said, amusement coating his voice. “That all you got?”  
Dean nodded. It was the best he could come up with.  
“Huh,” he said again, more definitely, and reached up to cup Sam's face as he pulled him into another kiss.

* * *

 


End file.
